


It Would Have Been Enough

by vtn



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Jewish Character, Jewish Holidays, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-15
Updated: 2010-08-15
Packaged: 2017-11-18 09:09:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,771
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/559279
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vtn/pseuds/vtn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John attends a Passover Seder with the Holmes family.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It Would Have Been Enough

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a prompt on sherlockbbc_fic, which again I don't have an exact copy of it but the basic gist was: Sherlock sounds like a Jewish name (maybe they were thinking of Shylock? lol), what if the Holmes family are Jewish and John celebrates the Jewish holidays with them?
> 
> A lot of this is based on the Passover celebrations of my own family and some of our family friends.
> 
> "It would have been enough" is the translation usually given for _Dayenu_ , which is a song traditionally sung at Passover. [Here's a recording of it](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mSfrxV_Kcig) for your listening pleasure.
> 
> Yes, I know this plays into the 'Jewish mother' stereotype somewhat and yeah, I have no excuse other than Sherlock and Mycroft are pretty clearly terrified of their 'Mummy' so it kind of fits; sorry about that. I hope it doesn't put anyone off the story too much.

_32 Garden Close, Banstead. 5pm. - SH_

John studies his mobile with interest, slightly uncertain as to what Sherlock wants with him in Banstead. He is fairly sure Sherlock isn't even on a case, from the way he's been shut up in the flat lately. At least whatever this is will get Sherlock _out_ of Baker Street.

_Dress up. -SH_

And of course John will meet him there; he always does.

He clocks out of the clinic early and hails a cab back to Baker Street, where as expected Sherlock has cleared out of their lodgings, leaving a trail of half-finished inquiries behind. In order to get to his phone charger, John has to push aside what appear to be some photocopied architectural plans with various places marked in red pen, and on the kitchen table there are several glasses of unidentified murky liquid and bits of metal. He frowns at his meagre assortment of good clothes and finally picks a somewhat unassuming suit in dark blue. Suddenly nervous for no reason that he can discern, he looks at himself in the mirror.

He straightens his back, _attention_. There's a lad. _At ease_.

\---

32 Garden Close is a sizable house, with light streaming from its windows and a number of cars parked in the road nearby. He pays the cab driver and climbs out, to find that Sherlock awaits him, in an almost ludicrously sharp silk suit.

"John," says Sherlock, looking a bit on edge. "You're late." John checks his mobile.

"By three minutes! Look, whatever this is for, there's people pulling in to the street just now," he says, pointing. "I just wish you would tell me what we were—"

"In," says Sherlock, grabbing John meaningfully by the arm and dragging him toward the house.

The tall, broad-shouldered woman who answers the door is probably approaching seventy, judging by the whiteness of her curls of hair and the wrinkles in her face. Over her neatly pressed sixties-era dress she is wearing a dirty apron and a disapproving expression. Then she sighs and shakes off the latter.

"Sherlock!" She throws her arms around Sherlock and kisses his cheeks. "Chag sameach! Introduce me to your friend."

"John Watson," says Sherlock, gesturing at John and inclining his head. Then he gestures at the woman. "Mrs. Deborah Rosen Holmes. My mother."

John had, by this time, figured as much.

"Chag sameach, John," says Deborah, looking a bit pained, but still holding out her hand for John to shake it. Sherlock is frowning, brushing flour from his otherwise immaculate suit.

"Chag sameach," says John, because his head is swimming and there isn't anything else to say.

\---

John wonders how Sherlock managed to survive in a household like this. Sure, Sherlock keeps the flat in a right state, but the important thing is that for Sherlock, there is order: everything is in what he considers to be its proper place. The house in Banstead is chaotic, while Deborah finishes up the dinner along with some of the other women in the extended Rosen family and one athletic-looking teenage boy. Underfoot, children of all ages are running about. While John and Sherlock talk in the hallway coming off the kitchen, a girl and a boy of about five are playing handheld video games on the stoop, sitting so close their foreheads are nearly touching.

"You never told me you were Jewish," says John, realizing immediately how phenomenally offensive it sounds and hoping that Sherlock won't find it to be so. "I thought you mentioned Christmas once."

"Half," Sherlock explains. "And you never asked."

"You could have just asked me round the normal way, you know. 'We're having a dinner for Passover, do you want to come?' 'Yes, Sherlock, that sounds great.'"

"I didn't expect I would invite you," Sherlock says, in his usual fashion of actually making things worse by way of attempted apology. "But I realized I couldn't deal with them alone."

"Couldn't _deal_ with—okay, I admit your brother is a head case, if he's even going to be here tonight—"

"Oh, he will." Sherlock sighs.

"—but your mum's nice," John finishes.

"In fact," says Sherlock, "If I'm not mistaken, here is Mycroft Holmes in all his glory, arriving at the doorstep. I could hear his car coming up the drive. It has a faulty engine. He's always driving the company car when he's out and about in London, but our mother is not particularly fond of gratuitous displays of status. Hello Mycroft."

"Sherlock. You've brought a guest, this is new. I'm proud of you." Mycroft hangs up his coat and gives John a once-over. "Ah, John. Got out the old suit, did you? The cut flatters you. If only my brother could be so subtle. Instead he goes all out with this monstrosity." Mycroft picks at a speck of who knows what on Sherlock's shoulder. The woman who introduced herself to John as Anthea enters the door right behind him and places her hand on his elbow, a mischievous smile on her face.

"I like this suit," says Sherlock. "It's good. Anyhow, your usual precision is lacking in your own choice of getup. Your tie and socks are mismatched. I believe you dressed at the last minute. Were you thinking of not coming? Dreading the presence of small children, perhaps? Or still worried to show up in front of Mother as a bachelor for another year? And then guilt struck at the last moment, clearly, or you would have found some other date than your assistant. Oh, to be swayed so easily by one's emotions, it must be thrilling."

If Harry pulled anything like this, John is thinking, he would tell her to get stuffed. He frequently has, in fact. He glances over at Anthea, who to his surprise is not even slightly offended, but persists in smiling.

"And you've revoked your bachelor status, Sherlock?" Anthea says, holding her hand up to her mouth to mask a giggle. Sherlock looks confused in response.

"Oh? What? No, I don't suffer from Mycroft's need for constant validation," he explains once he regains his bearings. John sighs, head in hand. "Anyhow, John, let's take our seats at the table."

\---

The large dinner table has soft silk pillows leaning against the back of every chair. John is surprised to discover that a place card reading has now been set out for him, seating him across from Anthea, and next to Sherlock on one side and one of the small game-playing children on the other. He picks the card up and eyes it dubiously. The ink is fresh, he notes, so Sherlock was telling the truth about only deciding to invite him at the last minute. He doesn't know whether to be annoyed or not. It takes him a few minutes not to sit with his back straight.

"What are you playing?" he says to the little boy in the seat beside him in an attempt to be friendly. "Looks like fun."

"It's Pokémon Soul Silver," the boy says, not looking up from his game. "I'm just level grinding. I'm trying to max out the EVs on my Latias. This is the best area to boost the speed EV, you know. It's got Levitate ability, so I can use it to beat Rachel's Mamoswine once I get it to level sixty." He keeps going on in this fashion, completely oblivious to John's lack of either comprehension or interest.

Oh God, John thinks, as the realization hits him. It's an entire family of Sherlocks.

In the center of the table there is a large plate with what appear to be food items on it. There is an egg, some matzoh, a bone, some greens, chopped nuts, and horseradish. Next to the plate is a cup of wine, similar to the wine glasses at each place. John vaguely recognizes these as having something to do with the holiday, but has no idea what their exact function is.

Sherlock's mother goes around handing books to everyone. John thanks her and opens his up; it has Hebrew on one side and English on the other. _Blessed are you, Lord, our God..._

"Tarlton," Deborah calls in a singsong.

An older man enters the room from parts unknown. Quietly handsome and gracefully aged, he is obviously Sherlock and Mycroft's father; could be no other. His grey suit is like all of the furniture and decoration in the house: subtly refined. He takes his seat at the end of the table.

"Good evening everyone. My apologies for my lateness." John glances over at Sherlock, who is eyeing various members of the party. "For all of my fellow gentiles, don't worry too much about being able to follow along, though your haggadah should help. There's English on the right side of the page as I imagine few of us here are well versed in Hebrew. Deborah, would you like to start the blessing?"

Suddenly, everyone at the table starts singing. Even Sherlock has joined in, though his expression is distinctly unimpressed. John blinks, his vaguely Anglican upbringing having done nothing to prepare him for this.

Sherlock discreetly elbows him in the side.

"Drink your wine," he says. John takes a sip; the red wine is surprisingly hearty and rich. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees two teenaged guests slap each other a silent high five as they take their drinks.

\---

Tarlton has, and John is fairly sure there was a glint in his eye as he announced it, chosen Sherlock to do the reading from the haggadah. He drones on emotionlessly, the children nonetheless hanging on to his every word. John is a bit miffed that Sherlock finds all of this insignificant; though he's certainly heard the story of Exodus in the Bible before, he likes the level of detail in this version of the story. And all of the interruptions for blessing are interesting, especially the one when a tiny girl with about fifteen barrette clips in her hair reads _Mah Nishtanah,_ the Four Questions, and leads the group in a song that has a clear enough tune for John to pick it up.

He is pleased to hear that at some point he will learn why, on this night, we eat matzoh and not ordinary bread; why, on this night, we eat only bitter herbs and not other herbs; why, on this night, we dip the aforementioned herbs twice; and why, on this night, we lean back on pillows, since he was more than a little curious and was afraid he would have to. As for the main overarching question, _Why is this night different from all other nights?_ , he's not sure he really needs help figuring that out.

This night is different from all other nights because tonight, all the children rush to the door to welcome in the prophet Elijah while Mycroft downs the wine in the glass on the center of the table and carefully replaces it exactly where its base left an indentation on the tablecloth. Sherlock rolls his eyes and wipes the rim with a napkin, noting that "even if one were to believe in the existence of spirits, it would be patently obvious to all but the most careless observer that there were lip prints on the glass".

This night is different from all other nights because tonight, Sherlock Holmes' father very seriously and deliberately takes on the task of hiding a piece of unleavened bread somewhere in the house. (At least, John is fairly sure this isn't a regular occurrence in the household, though he hasn't entirely ruled it out.) "This was never any fun when Sherlock and I were children," Mycroft intones solemnly. "He was able to figure out where Daddy had hidden it without even leaving the table, every time."

This night is different from all other nights because Sherlock suddenly becomes animated in the course of his reading in order to carefully explain the effects of all of the plagues that God levied upon the Egyptian people, including exact figures on the ability of a human civilization to survive without water, were all of said water to suddenly change into blood, and thorough detailing of the economic effects of a locust invasion on crops and the diseases carried by frogs. This night is different from all other nights because John, as instructed, sticks his finger in his wine glass and puts a drop on his plate with each plague, adding to the collection of oddities already on his plate.

This night is different from all other nights because by the end of it, John is stumbling his way through the blessings along with the Rosen-Holmeses and loudly joining in a somewhat drunken round of "Dayenu", and complementing Deborah on her matzo ball soup, and teaching 'whoops, Johnny, Johnny, Johnny' to some very intrigued children, and letting a slightly tipsy Sherlock Holmes lean on his shoulder for about four minutes until he notices Mycroft's amused gaze, and this is so unlike the gatherings of the Watsons which are best described as austere save for some occasional outbursts of colorful language from his sister, and he actually feels like maybe he has passed some kind of test and is being welcomed into a family he never asked for but would certainly not turn away.

\---

"You should go," says Sherlock, when many of the guests are lounging around the table after dessert in their inevitable food coma, some of the very small children have actually dozed off or are nursing at their bottles, and Sherlock has been called into the kitchen briefly.

And John decides that, as difficult as it is to tear himself away from the warmth and light, he will. He stops for a quick piss, and then from the toilet he hears the discussion in the kitchen,

"I know you're only doing it to upset me," says Deborah. "You never liked the seder, and now you want everyone to see that my little boy is gay?" Oh God, not this again. John groans. "I like John, he's a nice man, and I can't fault you for shacking up with a goy if I married one myself, but why do you have to tell me like this? And now I'm sitting here thinking how between you and Mycroft, I'll never have grandchildren! At my own seder!" She may actually be weeping. John wonders how the idea got into her that Sherlock would ever give her grandchildren anyway.

"Deborah," says Tarlton's calming voice, "I would prefer that we had this discussion with Sherlock on some other evening."

"John and I," Sherlock starts to say, and then trails off.

"John and you what?" asks Deborah, with a sniffle.

"I..." says Sherlock. A beat, and he continues. "My father is right. I would prefer to discuss this on some other occasion."

With a deep sigh, John enters the kitchen.

"Mr. and Mrs. Holmes," he says, "I was just about to leave but I realized I meant to say, thank you for having me round. This was a really wonderful experience."

"Please come back any time, John," says Tarlton formally.

Deborah turns away and quietly thanks him. She probably doesn't want John to see her in her distraught state. Then she heaves a sigh and looks back at him. He considers maybe just explaining the whole thing right then and there, that his relationship with Sherlock is purely platonic and they're just flatmates and Sherlock is married to his work—and then something in Sherlock's eyes makes him stop.

"Take good care of my Sherlock," Deborah says to John, putting her hand on her son's arm. "Though you're already a saint for putting up with him, aren't you, John dear?"

"I thought Jews didn't canonize," John says, attempting a smile. "Too polytheistic."

"Well, none of those old rabbis have met my son," says Deborah.

\---

Sherlock and John share a cab on the way back, and John watches his flatmate's eyes as they gaze emptily out into the darkness of the English night.

"Sherlock, thank you," he finally manages, breaking the silence.

"You were right. I could have just asked the normal way," Sherlock says. "I thought you wouldn't want to be here." John shakes his head emphatically.

"I always—because I—" He isn't sure exactly what to say.

And if Sherlock had only nodded to show he understood, that would have been enough. But instead he touches John's hand, and for now, even though John himself can't quite put into words the questions he has and the answers that are gradually coming, that is quite nearly a miracle.


End file.
